The Walgravian ancestors step inside Trinity Church.

The tenors, the horns, the sopranos, the altos

Say: “Do not be troubled. Death will come.”

The basses as they sing reach into their long coats

And give bits of dark bread to the poor, saying,

“Eat, eat, in the shadow of Jethro’s garden.”

The clarinets remind us of the old promise

That the orphans will be fed. The oboes reply,

“Oh, that promise is too wonderful for us!”

Don’t worry, my dears. The tidal wave that

Wipes out whole cities is merely the wood thrush

Lifting her wings to catch the morning sun.

We know that God gobbles up the Faithful.

The Harvesters on the sea floor are feeding

All of those ruined by the depth of the sea.

We know that people live and die. Even after

Their tree has splintered and fallen in the night, once

Dawn has come, the birds can do nothing but sing.